Wager All
by wbva
Summary: Betting is exciting. And apparently, at age twenty-nine, Harry's mind is still wired to immediately jump to any and all challenges the snob throws at him.


**Disclaimer**: Needless but necessary to say is that the Potterverse does not belong to me, but is the intellectual property of the wonderful J.K. Rowling, which I am merely borrowing.

**A/N**: The title reference to The Decemberists' song is purely ironic. This is a story that floated around in my head for a long time, and then took a more concrete form under the influence of shows like The Wire and Queer As Folk, life as I know it, and various other obscure sources. The fragmentary and non-chronological nature of the story-telling was inspired by Joseph Heller's Catch-22 (and my inability to write a chronologically ordered story with a good flow, but shh).

* * *

_Draco bloody Malfoy._

Only barely did Harry manage to contain his anger enough to not shove all the paper work off his desk in a fit of fury. Not guilty, was the verdict. Again. And all thanks to the amoral son of a bastard that called himself a lawyer. Just how many good cases had Harry seen go to waste because of slimy rhetoric or maniacal hair-splitting?

He really did hate that man.

For once, they had been absolutely convinced that they would at least be able to get _some_ sort of conviction out of the court, but it seemed that any case that the snake got involved in miraculously vaporized into thin air. It almost physically pained Harry to think about the extra workload that preparing the appeal would cause. The idea of _losing_ the appeal was something he did not even want to think about. He had invested too much time and emotional commitment to see this case go to waste.

He took a look at the clock, which told him there were only fifteen minutes left on his shift, and decided nobody would get hurt if he left. Getting his stuff and making his way to the Atrium, he stopped to peek his head through a door to see a pal real quick.

'Head Auror.' Harry nodded importantly. In his big leather chair behind his big mahogany desk, Ron gave him a grin, albeit not as fierce as usual.

'Mate,' he said, 'what's up – heading out? Got this memo here about the McFarland case. Prick did it again. I'm meeting with the prosecutor in twenty; she's not a happy witch at the moment. This will be at least another couple of dozens of man hours and Merlin knows how many weeks.' Harry could tell the flunking of the McFarland case was the cherry on the cake of an already tiresome workday for Ron.

'Sorry, man; we tried our best. I guess this means you won't make it to diner?'

Ron shook his head, disappointed.

'Maybe I'll be able to catch the match. Say hi to everyone for me.'

Harry nodded again, turned around, and headed for the Atrium.

* * *

If the fact that Dean was sitting on Harry's couch hadn't betrayed the presence of Ginny, the delicious smell that was reaching Harry from the kitchen would have. Ginny had never taken much interest in any of Molly's motherly skills up until her pregnancy. Harry wasn't sure if it was motherly instincts that were kicking in at last, or if it was because she was simply bored out of her mind now that she was on maternity leave, but Ginny had been taking 'classes' with her mother, as they liked to call them. Turned out: she wasn't half bad at cooking.

Harry entered the kitchen, where he found both cooks crouched in front of the oven and couldn't help but smile at the sight. It still amazed him after all these years how two of his favorite people in the world had grown so close, despite the initial bumps in the road.

He'd been watching them for a good ten seconds, being completely ignored, before he spoke.

'A watched pot never boils. Doesn't the same apply to ovens?'

At last, the two turned around to acknowledge his existence. Amir raised himself to kiss Harry hello. A soft 'how was your day?' was exchanged. Ginny stayed crouched. Harry suspected that with her belly it had already taken a considerable effort to even get in that position. She told him about how it was not the temperature that the issue, but rather the time the chicken was supposed to be in the oven. She had tried to contact her mother through the Floo Network, but there had been no one at the Burrow. And so she was left to watch the chicken conspicuously until it had the exact right color.

'Don't worry, Gin, I'm sure you're still a better cook than Amir.'

'And you, for that matter,' Ginny said, pointing her finger at Harry. 'Why do you even bother to throw us dinner parties when I'm the one that ends up cooking?' She was rolling her eyes as she said it, but the twitching corners of her mouth gave her away.

'We are only doing it out of mercy. Giving you something to do so that you won't claw out your eyes out of boredom. Really, it's for your own sake,' Amir said, his voice silky smooth, a sugary sweet smile that he only used when needing to persuade, or suck up.

'Alright, alright. Now, why don't you two set the table, the chicken's almost good to go.'

* * *

'You barely said a word at the table,' Amir spoke, slowly stepping into the kitchen, walking up to Harry, who was busying himself with the dishes in the sink. He could feel the warm body approaching, and allowed himself to lean back into the rock hard center of his partner. It felt a little like stepping into a hot bath. Arms were wrapped around Harry. Whatever else could be said, Amir's arms were still a comfortable place to be in. A safe place.

'Just work,' Harry said sighing. It usually was work. Amir just hmmm'ed and nodded.

'Well, you know that I think that if magic is good for anything, it's dishes,' said Amir gently, stroking Harry's neck with the back of his hand. 'Why don't you put down that brush? Ginny and Dean are waiting. The match should put your minds off things.'

And so they went.

It wasn't an important match: although they had started off the season well enough and although they were coping with Ginny's absence, the Harpies had no chance to win the League this year. Still, they went whenever they could. Ginny wouldn't miss a match, and the others didn't mind the free tickets. This evening, the party wasn't as large as it usually was. George and Angelina had failed to find a baby sitter. With Hermione away for business and Ron stuck in the office, it was just the four of them.

The match was only mildly entertaining. Both teams were in an alright shape, but with nothing left to play for for either team, the game went down relatively calmly and disappointingly civil. Being Ginny's guests, their seats had a great view and they were surrounded by people who were regularly featured in the Prophet. The atmosphere wasn't as cheerful or as full of enthusiasm as it was in the tribunes below them with the large crowds, but Dean made sure the beer kept flowing, so things were alright.

* * *

With how uneventful the last fifteen minutes of the match had been, Harry had expected the restroom to be more crowded. It seemed however, that he was alone. As he closed the door behind him, the noise from the stadium faded away. With the silence, his headache also kicked back in with full force. Watching the game, he had mostly forgotten about the headache he had given himself earlier this evening. Now, it was back, and the beer hadn't helped exactly, either.

'Well hello, Mr. Potter.'

As Harry had gone to wash his hands, none other than Draco Malfoy walked in. Harry cringed but, with some effort, dug up the best manners he could find.

'Evening. I hadn't pegged you as a Tornadoes fan,' Harry said. 'Shouldn't you be rooting for Puddlemere?'

Harry had never really given it thought before, but he had always assumed that, given its proximity to Wiltshire and its reputation as oldest and most renowned club, it would surely be the Malfoys' club.

'Born and raised to be a Tornado. I believe my family did support Puddlemere once. But Tutshill is, after all, closer to our Manor. And I guess winning the League five times in a row helped a little.' Malfoy chuckled slightly, finding amusement in Harry's surprise.

'I guess your family does learn from history, after all.' Harry said, realizing that it was a bit of a low blow only when it had left his mouth. 'Too bad the Tornadoes aren't doing so good these days.'

Draco Malfoy just shrugged, joining Harry at the sink.

'As long as they can still beat the Harpies, I am not too worried.'

'But they're losing.'

Unfazed, Malfoy said: 'They aren't.' And, after a short pause: 'Wanna bet?'

Apparently, even at age twenty-nine, Harry's mind was still wired to immediately respond to any and all challenges the snob threw at him.

'How much?'

'I have enough Galleons,' Malfoy said with a dangerous smile. 'I dare say that you do too. I'm sure you can think of something more interesting.'

The door swooshed open to admit two new men to the restroom, but Harry's mind was preoccupied.

'McFarland. If I win, you drop the McFarland case.'

'Surely, you don't expect me to bet with my career.' While Malfoy spoke, the dangerous smile turned into a toothy grin. It was a little creepy, Harry thought.

'You wanted interesting.'

Malfoy seemed to think on that a little.

'Fair enough. I'll do it. If the Tornadoes lose, I'll drop the case. If they win, you will be a guest at my 'Welcome Home' party for Blaise Zabini.'

'I am not attending anyone's 'Welcome Home from Azkaban' party, Malfoy.' Harry snarled. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that the ex-Slytherin would be released sometime soon. He hadn't expected Malfoy to openly associate with convicted criminals, with him trying to build up a reputation and everything. They hadn't been that close in Hogwarts, had they?

'Then the Harpies had better win, if you want me off the McFarland case.'

Harry thought. They had been 80 in advance when he left. They had an alright seeker.

'Fair enough.'

* * *

'Christ, Harry, cheer up. It's not like they lost the World Cup,' Amir said as he crawled into bed. He was just wearing boxers, exposing the golden skin of his chest. Harry knew that Amir thought it was still too cold to be sleeping in just boxers.

'I know.' Harry sighed, turning away from him. Within seconds, he felt hands on him: on his stomach, and lower. A mouth on his neck.

'It's not that. It's just…'

'Work.' The sentence was finished for Harry, while firm hands rolled him onto his back.

'Yeah.'

Amir hmmm'ed.

'I'm tired. Can we just..?'

'Yeah.'


End file.
